


Jump the Broom

by Ghanima_Starkiller



Category: Django Unchained (2012)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-05
Updated: 2013-02-05
Packaged: 2017-11-28 07:46:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/671992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghanima_Starkiller/pseuds/Ghanima_Starkiller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the road, Django recalls his wedding day....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jump the Broom

Broomhilda takes Django’s hand in hers, both rough, callused from work, hers smaller enfolded in his long fingers. She smiles up at him, her hair loose about her heart-shaped face, her shoulders, a wild sort of mess, such a change from the way she pulls it back along her scalp when she’s working, almost make it look straight. The broom lies in the dirt at their feet, and neither try to imagine what would happen if they were discovered. They leap. She lets out a little squeal, as if landing on the other side will change them somehow, make it different. they will land somewhere different.

They sit beneath the Big Tree—so called because it is, in fact, a big-ass tree; if there was anything they’ve learned it is that white folk aren’t real creative with the naming—reveling in this time together, their short, secretive honeymoon. The branches hunch to the ground like an old man’s tired arms, hiding them from prying eyes. Hildy grabs some of the Spanish moss and is playing with it, telling him a story about how it was once a bride’s hair—that’s what she called it when she was little, the bride’s hair. It’s what Hildy does best, making something beautiful out of nothing.

“Musta been a nigger,” he comments, making her scowl and smile, like he always does, “’cause the bride had some nappy-ass hair!” She throws it at him, laughing, and that’s what Django does best. It’s one of the few ways he knows he can protect her, to lift her spirits like that. She explains that an Indian chief stormed the wedding and killed the bride and groom, cutting her hair off and scattering it in the trees, where it turned gray and started to spread on its own.

His brow furrows. “So… this is a happy weddin’ day story ‘bout a lynchin’?” Yeah, that seems somehow appropriate, but he’s teasing again, grabbing for her small waist as she dances just out of his reach, throwing whatever she can grab at him: fistfuls of grass, the moss, leaves, the petals of flowers uprooted by her grasping fingers.

She’s so small when he catches her up, almost doll-like when he holds her; she seems impossibly delicate, considering how strong he knows her to be. “Come here, little troublemaker,” he murmurs, and that’s when the play ends, and their loving begins.

He licks first, there between her legs, like a hound dog at his sup, making her squirm with wet, his and her own. It’s for her own pleasure, and she knows it, knows that he likes to do that for her, and then tell her that she’s the best taste he ever had in his mouth, like sweet tea on the hottest of days, like the brackish freedom of sea spray on the beach. He adds a finger, know where to crook and to stroke to make it fast like lightning, her shuddering end, suckling on that little taut nub as his fingertip presses against that silken wall inside of her.

She welcomes him inside of her, still clenching lightly, warm and so deliciously dripping. the world lurches around them, and it’s just the two of them, clinging to each other, kissing and grunting, her giving as good as she’s getting with a ferocity that always manages to surprise Django. It’s so good; neither can imagine nothing better than being joined like this, than the way his cock plows seemingly all the way into her womb and nestles there before withdrawing and starting the charge again.

And, at last, he spills, and that makes her his, more than any broom could ever do, his seed in her belly. His wife. And they lie together, glazing up at how the moonlight dazzles through the eaves, and the sky beyond is deep like velvet. Like her skin, now slick with sweat and where his tongue has touched her.

And he remembers all of this when he is on the road with Dr. Schultz. He sees her, sometimes, and she’s just with him, smiling, gazing at him. It’s longing, yes. But it is also the ways in which they are joined, heart to heart. And, in the end, it isn't that the moment came and went, had ended. It is that the moment had happened at all, and he holds that to his heart, right beside it, like tucking it into a pocket along with the promise that they’ll be together again to make more such memories.


End file.
